


Death & Taxes

by MsPooslie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Stranger Than Fiction (2006)
Genre: Accountant Bucky Barnes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Steve Rogers, Baker Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Lonely Bucky Barnes, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Nerd Bucky Barnes, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Bucky Barnes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stan Lee Cameo, Stanger than Fiction AU, Steve Rogers is an anarchist, Tattooed Steve Rogers, agent bucky barnes, angry chihuahua steve rogers, based on Stranger Than Fiction (2006), not a SHIELD agent an IRS agent, or he would be but Anarchists don't assemble, overly-reliable narrator, pre-serum bucky barnes (how is this not already a tag??)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsPooslie/pseuds/MsPooslie
Summary: This is a story about a man named Bucky Barnes (and his wristwatch).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for those of you who have seen the movie, it is basically a re-telling but only from Harold/Bucky's POV and with a little smut thrown in for fun :)

> _This is a story about a man named Bucky Barnes (and his wristwatch)._  
>  _Bucky Barnes was a man of infinite numbers endless calculations and remarkably few words (his wristwatch said even less)._  
>  _Every weekday, for 12 years, Bucky would brush each of his 32 teeth 76 times. 38 times back and forth. 38 times up and down._  
>  _Every weekday, for 12 years Bucky would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot instead of the double thereby saving up to 43 seconds (his wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat but said nothing)._  
>  _Every weekday, for 12 years Bucky would run at a rate of nearly 57 steps per block for 6 blocks barely catching the 8:17 Brooklyn bus. (His wristwatch would delight in the feeling of the crisp wind rushing over its face)._  
>  _And every weekday, for 12 years Bucky would review 7.134 tax files as a senior agent for the Internal Revenue Service, only taking a 45.7-minute lunch break and a 4.3 Minute coffee break timed precisely by his wristwatch._  
>  _Beyond that, Bucky lived a life of solitude._  
>  _He would walk home alone._  
>  _He would eat alone._  
>  _And at precisely 11:13 every night, Bucky would go to bed._  
>  _Alone._  
>  _Placing his wristwatch to rest on the nightstand beside him._  
>  _That was, of course, before Wednesday._  
>  _On Wednesday, Bucky's wristwatch changed everything._  
>    
>  _If one had asked Bucky, he would have said that this particular Wednesday was exactly like all the Wednesdays prior. And he began it the same way he--_

Bucky stops brushing his teeth, looking around in confusion before resuming. 

> _And he began it the same way he always did._

He stops brushing again, staring at his toothbrush, 'hello?” he holds the toothbrush to his ear and shakes it slightly then shakes his head and resumes brushing. 

> _He began it the same way he always did. When others' minds would--_

He stops brushing again, looking around the bathroom in consternation, “hello? Is someone there?” he resumes brushing, a baffled look on his face. 

> _When others' minds would fantasize about their upcoming day or even try to grip onto the final moments of their dreams Bucky just counted brushstrokes._

As the voice continues, Bucky looks more and more lost, before spitting into the sink. “All right, who just said, ‘Bucky just counted brushstrokes’? And how do you know I'm counting brushstrokes? Hello?” 

> _It was remarkable how the simple, modest--_

Bucky pauses mid tying to glance around his bedroom. 

> _It was remarkable h--_

He paused and glanced again. 

> _It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements of Bucky's life so often taken for granted would become the catalyst for an entirely new life._

* * *

> _Bucky ran for the bus, his stiff leather shoes making a terrible squeaking sound--_

  
Bucky stops in the middle of the crosswalk to look at his squeaky shoes only to quickly resume running as his bus pulls up to the stop. 

>   
>  _\--as they flexed against the asphalt. And though this was an extraordinary day a day to be remembered for the rest of Bucky's life--_

As he approaches, the bus pulls away. He turns to the only other person, a short elderly man with a thick moustache wearing square-rimmed aviator sunglasses who has also just missed the bus, and throws his hands up in annoyance at its receding form. 

> _\--Bucky just thought it was a Wednesday._

Bucky turns to the other man, “I'm sorry, did you hear that? The voice. Did you hear it? ‘Bucky thought it was a Wednesday’?”

The man turns to him with a warm smile, “don't worry, it is Wednesday.”

“No, no, did you hear it? ‘Bucky just thought it was a Wednesday’?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

“I'm Bucky.”

“Bucky, it's okay, man, it's Wednesday.”

“No, no, I. Never mind.”

* * *

He walks through the office cube farm, one co-worker tries to stop him for a question and he doesn’t notice-- 

> _Bucky couldn't concentrate on his work. His thoughts were scattered. His mind elsewhere._

\--then he runs into another almost knocking the overstuffed manila folder out of his hands. As he passes by two men talking, one reaches out and taps his shoulder, “--hold on a second. Hey, Buck, what's 3039.31 times 107.12?” 

> _When a coworker asked the product of 3039.31 and 107.12--_

He glances up and glares, “you know what? I can't think while you're talking.” 

> _\--he drew a blank._

The two men look at him, dumbfounded, “What?”  
Bucky shakes his head to try and clear the confusion, “What?” 

> _Bucky quickly answered, '325.570.38'_

“Oh, nothing. 325.570.38”. 

> _Despite the answer really being 325.570.89._

“Wait, wait, wait, 325.570.89. Sorry.”

* * *

In the file room, where Bucky has been standing, staring off into space for who knows how long, a handsome black man with broad shoulders and a lovely gapped tooth smile approaches.

“Dude, I just totally caught some insurance adjuster claiming his jet ski as a work vehicle!” the man laughs, “it is a shame that they don't give out an auditor of the year award.” As he approaches, his humor turns into a look of concern, “Dude? You okay?”

Bucky blinks out of his reverie, “Sam, I'm being followed.”

Sam looks around in confusion, “how are you being followed? You're not moving.”

Bucky, nearly whispers, “It's by a voice.”

“What?”

“I'm being followed by a woman's voice.”

“Oh. Okay,” Sam looks bewildered, “What is she saying?”

“She's narrating.”

“What?”

“She’s narrating.”

“Oh.” his eyebrows go up, “Bucky, man, you're staring at boxes, what is she narrating?”

“No, no, no. I had to stop filing. Watch. Watch. Listen. Listen,” he begins sliding the files, one by one, into the box.

> _The sound the paper made against the folder had the same tone as a wave scraping against sand. And when Bucky thought about it he listened to enough waves every day to constitute what he imagined to be a deep and endless ocean._

Bucky stops filing and looks at Sam expectantly, “Did you hear that?”

“You mean you filing?”

“No, no, no, the voice!”

Sam crosses his arms, worry etched on his features, “No.”

Bucky’s face takes on a wistful look, “frightening part is sometimes I do imagine a deep and endless ocean.”

“What ocean?”

“The one made by the sound--” Bucky looks down at the files then shakes his head, “forget it.”

A woman approaches with two files, one is very thick, the other looks to only have a few sheets of paper. “New audits. Have a good day.”

“Thank you.” Sam takes the files from her, “all right, we got a baker and a securities trader.” He glances up at Bucky before holding out the thinner file, “maybe you should take the baker.”


	2. Chapter 2

The baker is a truly tiny man and every millimeter of his small stature is permeated with rage as he beats the dough on the counter in front of him with a rolling pin, “Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” His face is red when turns to Bucky, “you miscreant!”

“I understand,” Bucky tries, apologetically. 

The baker punches the dough, “Oh, get bent, TAXMAN!!”

One of the patrons pickup on this, “taxman?!

“Taxman!” the baker rages, now pointing the rolling pin at Bucky, “Boo!”

Of course the other customers jeeringly join in with a disjointed chorus of ‘Taxman!’s and ‘Boo’s of their own. 

Bucky, standing awkwardly at the counter, gives the baker a pleading look, “listen, is there somewhere else we could talk about this?” 

The baker places a flour covered hand on his hip, “no. We're gonna talk about this right here,” he gestures at the bakery full of onlookers. 

Bucky pulls out the slim file, “o..kay? Mr. Rogers,” he glances around at the crowd before clearing his throat and continuing, “It says, the file,” he proffers the page, “that you only paid part of your taxes for last year.”

Rogers breaks into a huge self-righteous grin, “that's right.”

“Looks like only 82 percent.” 

“Yep.” 

“So you did it on purpose?” Bucky raises one eyebrow.

“Yep.” Rogers crosses his arms across his chest.

“So you must have been expecting an audit?” 

“I was expecting a fine,” the buzzer on the oven goes off and Rogers turns his back on Bucky, walking over to remove the pan of baked goods, “or a sharp reprimand,” he sets the pan on a cooling rack before turning back. 

“A reprimand? This isn't boarding school, Mr. Rogers. You stole from the government.” 

Rogers slams the oven door closed, “no, I didn't steal from the government, I just didn't pay you ENTIRELY.” 

“Mr. Rogers, you can't just not pay your taxes.” 

“Yes. I. can.” 

The smile he gives Bucky would be dazzling under any other circumstances. This, however, is not any other circumstances. Bucky sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “you can if you wanna get audited.” 

“Only if I recognize your right to audit me, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Mr. Rogers, I'm right here auditing you,” Bucky waves the file at him once again. “Now I have to go over your past three years to make sure that's all you haven't paid,” He frowns down at the papers in his hand, as if this is their fault.

“Fine!” Rogers beats the dough with the rolling pin once again then tosses it onto the counter in exasperation. “actually, you know, it's not fine!” he turns towards Bucky, wiping his hands on his flour-covered apron, “Listen, I'm a big supporter of fixing potholes and erecting swing sets and building shelters,” he gestures widely at the large windows facing the street, “I am more than happy to pay those taxes.” He turns and points a long finger at Bucky, “I'm just not such a big fan of the percentage that the government uses for national defense corporate bailouts and campaign discretionary funds!” by now the customers, mostly regulars who have heard this rant before, have lost interest and have tuned out the conversation. “So I didn't pay those taxes.” Rogers continues, excited now, “I think, actually,” he practically skips to the counter where Bucky is standing, “I sent a letter to that effect with my return.” 

Bucky pulls out a sheet of paper, “Would it be the letter that begins, 'Dear lmperialist Swine'?” 

“Yes!” The dazzling grin is back. 

“Mr. Rogers, what you're describing is anarchy. Are you an anarchist?” He places the letter back into the folder with a scowl. 

“You mean am I a member of--?” 

“An anarchist group, yes.” 

“Anarchists have a group?” Rogers raises a single eyebrow in challenge. 

“I believe so. Sure.” Bucky shrugged, dismissively. 

Rogers’s sea-blue eyes sparkled with mirth. “They assemble?” 

“I don't know--” 

Rogers leans into Bucky’s personal space, his voice dropping huskily, “wouldn't that completely defeat the purpose?” He turns on his heel back to the tray he removed from the oven. 

> _It was difficult for Bucky to imagine Mr. Rogers as a revolutionary._

Bucky’s heart sinks as his eyes turn heavenward, “nooo not now.”

> _His thin arms--_

Rogers glances up, “what?” He looks at Bucky, expectantly. 

> _\--hoisting protest signs.  
>  _ _His shapely legs--_

Bucky sighs, defeated, “nothing.” 

> _\--dashing from tear gas.  
>  _ _Bucky wasn't prone to fantasies and so he tried his best to remain professional. But, of course, failed._

Bucky tried to wrench his attention away from Rogers whom is now drizzling honey on the pastries, his eyes cast down and his obscenely long eyelashes brushing his flushed cheeks. 

> _He couldn't help but imagine Mr. Rogers stroking the side of his face with the soft blade of his finger._

Bucky swallows thickly as Rogers licks a smear of honey from his finger, his sinfully full pink lips moistened by his darting tongue. 

> _He couldn't help but imagine him immersed in a tub, surrounded by candles, drinking a glass of wine._

Bucky’s eyes trace the rose vines on Roger’s tattooed shoulder, follows them as they curl around a pastel shield with a star in the center and curve under the edge of the black wife-beater tank-top. He finds himself picturing how far the vines go. 

> _And he couldn't help but imagine him naked stretched across his bed--_

He is so immersed in his fantasy that he doesn’t notice Rogers glaring at him as he approaches the counter where Bucky is gazing longingly at the smaller man. 

“Mr. Barnes?”

“Yes, what is it?” his eyes remained unfocused. 

“Mr. Barnes,” Rogers snaps his fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “You're staring at my crotch.”

Bucky blinks slowly, head fuzzy as if he’s drunk, “I wa--?” He shakes his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear it, “I don't think I was. I don't think I would do that.” He packs the file into his briefcase in a huff, furious at himself. “If I was, I can assure you it was only as a representative of the United States government.” 

Too late, he realizes his statement has made it even worse, “sorry, I'm just having issues today. So I'll be back on Tuesday.” He practically runs from the bakery. 

> _Bucky suddenly found himself beleaguered and exasperated outside the bakery--_

He turns his face to the sky, both hands curled into fists, “SHUT! UP!” 

> _\--cursing the heavens in futility._

“No, I'm not! I'm cursing you, you stupid voice! Just shut up and leave me alone!” 

* * *

“I had a very interesting little convo with someone in your section,” the doctor was a huge blonde man with hair longer than Bucky’s which he had styled in what Bucky would categorize as hippie braids? 

“Yeah?”

“Yes, my friend. They said you were feeling a little wibbly-wobbly.” He smiles crookedly and squints at Bucky, “catch a little cubicle fever?”

“Oh, I don't know. I think I'm okay.” Bucky averted his eyes and shrugged, wondering how much longer he was going to have to talk to this guy. 

“Bucky, a tree doesn't think it's a tree it is a tree.” 

> _Why was Bucky talking to this man? This man was an idiot. This man used words like 'wibbly-wobbly' and 'convo.' And explained that trees were trees. Of course trees were trees. Bucky knew trees were trees._

Bucky tries to focus on the still talking doctor. 

“...I am going to believe you, Bucky...” 

> _What Bucky didn't know was why he couldn't shake the smell of brownies from his senses. Why Mr. Rogers had made his fingertips quiver and lips go numb._

Bucky licks his lips as his mouth goes dry st the memory of Rogers’s beautiful face, his blonde hair flopping in his eyes where he blows at the offending strands. The battle for his attention was completely lost. 

“Bucky?” 

“Yes? Sorry.” 

“What's going on, Bucky?”

“Nothing? Everything's fine.”

The doctor sets aside his notebook, “listen, according to your records you haven't taken vacation in a few years now.” Bucky kind of wants to slap the placating smile off the doctor’s face. “Let's say you take a little break. Use some of that vacay time.” He pats Bucky on the knee once before rising to dismiss him.

“Yeah. I'll think about it.”

“Bucky. I'm not really supposed to do this, but,” the large man pulls Bucky into a bone-crushing hug. 

Bucky awkwardly pats him on the back in return. 

As he waits for the bus to take him home, Bucky feels exhausted, much more so than the day’s activities warranted. He stares off into space, his head blissfully quiet for once as suddenly his watch started beeping and trilling like crazy. It takes him nearly a minute to realize that it was, indeed, his watch. 

> _Bucky assumed his watch was simply on the fritz and never even considered that it might be trying to tell him something. In fact, Bucky had never once paid attention to his watch other than to find out the time. And, honestly, it drove his watch crazy--_

As he looks down, trying to figure out how to make the racket stop, he missed Mr. Rogers passing by on the sidewalk opposite. 

> _\--and so, on this particular Wednesday evening as Bucky waited for the bus, his watch suddenly stopped_. 

He sighs wearily at the heavens as he shook his watch dejectedly. He looks around at the other passengers, many of whom glared at him in annoyance, “sorry, does anyone have the time?”

A kindly older man pipes up, “yeah, I got uh, 6:12”.

“Thanks,” Bucky re-sets his watch, which seems to, of course, be functioning perfectly fine now, and scrubs his face. 

> _Thus Bucky's watch thrust him into the immitigable path of fate.  
>  Little did he know that this simple, seemingly innocuous act would result in his imminent death. _

His hand freezes, mid-rub as his head jerks skyward, “What? What? Hey! Hello?” He gesticulates wildly, “What? Why? Why my death?” He is shouting, unrestrained, as the other passengers move away from him in embarrassment. “Hello! Excuse me! When? How imminent?”

* * *

He’s not sure how he makes it home but the second he steps through the door, he runs to the bathroom, “Okay, where are you?” he picks up his toothbrush, smearing a great daub of toothpaste on it before shoving it unceremoniously in his mouth, “'Bucky would brush his 32 teeth 72 times!’” he spits into the sink and turns an angry circle, “Why won't you say anything?” he looks in the shower, yelling into the dry shower head, “I heard you! 'That would result in his imminent death.' I heard you!” He slams the shower door and runs into his bed room “Come on, you stupid voice!”

He begins self-narrating all of his actions, “'Bucky frantically grabbed his lamp!’ ‘Bucky, incensed, shook the hell out of it for no apparent reason!’ ‘He smashed it on the ground, kicking it repeatedly!’ ‘Bucky took his Kleenex box, threw it across the room then stormed the closet!'” He frantically pulls shirts, shoes, ties, all of them out of the closet, leaving them strewn across the floor.

“Come on. Say something!” he screams into the closet mirror, tears of frustration and fear beginning to prickle at his eyes, “Something! Say something! Say something! ANYTHING! 'Bucky, distraught.' oh god. 'Bucky, distraught.' 'Bucky...’” he falls to the floor in a heap of disconsolate tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how i picture Steve's tattoo:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20152096  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/sevenmarie/48481332877/in/dateposted-public/)


	3. Chapter 3

The doctor is a balding middle-aged man with a kind yet stern face. He frowns as he addresses Bucky, “I'm afraid what you're describing is schizophrenia.” 

Bucky shakes his head emphatically, “no. No. It's not schizophrenia. It's just a voice in my head.” he opens and closes his mouth once like a fish before continuing, “No I know what that sounds like but, I mean, the voice isn't telling me to DO anything. It's telling me what I already HAVE done.” he scrubs at his face, “accurately and with a better vocabulary.”

The doctor gives Bucky a ‘get real’ look, “Mr. Barnes, you have a voice speaking to you.” 

Bucky swipes his hand through the air, “no, not TO me, ABOUT me. Like I'm a character in my own life. Like I'm somehow involved in some sort of story. But the problem is that the voice comes and goes. Like there are other parts of the story not being told to me,” he sits forward in his chair, focus intense, “and I need to find out what those other parts are before it's too late.” 

“Before the story concludes with your death.” 

“Yes.” 

“Mr. Barnes, I hate to sound like a broken record but that's schizophrenia”.

Bucky slumps back with a huff, “you don't sound like a broken record, but it's just not. It’s not schizophrenia.” He has an idea, sitting up with excitement, “what if what I said was true? Hypothetically speaking, if I WAS part of a story, a narrative. Yes, even if it was only in my mind. What would you then suggest that I do?” 

“I would suggest you take prescribed medication. For schizophrenia. Other than that. I don't know.” He thinks for a moment, rubbing his chin, “I suppose I would send you to see someone who knows about literature.” 

“Okay. Yeah.” Bucky stands up, grabbing his jacket off the coat rack, “that's a good idea. Thank you.”

* * *

“So you're the gentleman who called me about the narrator.” The professor gives Bucky a level stare.

“Yes.”

“This narrator says you're gonna die.” She raises a single cynical eyebrow and gestures for him to follow. 

Bucky smiles with the relief that someone is finally listening to him, “yes!”

They stop at a coffee machine, “how long has it given you to live?” 

“I don't know.” 

She leans against the machine as it fills her cup, “dramatic irony. It'll fuck you every time.” She gives a half smile with just a hint of dimple, “so, you crazy or what?”

Bucky looks crestfallen, “well-”

“Wait,” the professor narrows here eyes a moment, “are you allowed to say that to crazy people?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh, well,” she grabs the coffee out of the machine, “how many stairs in the hallway out there?”

“What?” Bucky looks a tiny bit offended.

“You were counting them as we walked, weren't you?“

“No.” he doesn’t say ‘I was counting the tiles.’

“Of course.” She sips her coffee, hissing as it scalds her. “What bank do you work at?” 

“No bank. IRS agent.” Bucky follows her into a room, before realizing it is the ladies’ restroom. He looks panicked a moment before she speaks again.

“Married?”

He distracts himself from the awkwardness by visually measuring the percentage of soap left in the dispensers, “no.” 

“Ever?” 

“Engaged to an auditor. She left me for an actuary.” 

They both wash their hands and she picks up the cup, chugging the rest of the coffee. “How heartbreaking. Live alone?” She tosses the empty cup in the trash and uses her shoulder to push open the bathroom door for them both.

Yes.”

“Any pets?” 

“No.”

“Friends?”

“No. Well, Dave at work.” 

“I see. The narrator, exactly what does he sound like?” 

“It's a woman.”

“A woman?” she pauses a moment in thought before continuing her quick pace down the hallway, “is it a familiar woman?”

“No.” 

“Someone you know?” they enter her office, she fills up another cup of coffee from the pot on a bookcase.

“No.” 

“Did you have enough time to count the tiles in the bathroom?” 

Bucky gives her A Look, “I wasn't counting the tiles.” 

This gets a larger smile, 1.5 dimples, “uh-huh. So this woman, the voice, told you you're gonna die?” 

Bucky chews his lower lip in agitation at not being listened to after all, “she didn't tell me. She doesn't know I can hear her.”

“But she said it.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you believed her.” 

“She's been right about a... few... other things.”

“Such as?” the professor flops into her desk chair, propping her feet up on the desk’s paper covered surface.

“How I felt about work.”

“You dislike your work?”

“Yes.” 

She raises an eyebrow, “well, not the most insightful voice in the world, is it?” At Bucky’s confused look she continues, “first thing on a list of what Americans hate: work. Second, traffic. Third, missing socks.” She shrugs, “see what I'm saying?” 

“Sort of.” Bucky frowns.

“I told you you were gonna die, you believe me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don't know you.”

“But you don't know this narrator.”

“Well--”

She abruptly stands,“okay, Mr. Barnes, I can't help you,” she walks towards the door, he instinctively follows her.

“Why?” 

“Well, I'm not an expert in crazy, I'm an expert in literature theory. And I gotta tell you, thus far there doesn't seem to be a single literary thing about you.” She gives him a sympathetic frown, “I don't doubt you hear a voice, but it couldn't possibly be a narrator because, frankly, there doesn't seem to be much to narrate.” She lightly pushes him into the hallway, “besides that, this semester I'm teaching five courses. I'm mentoring two doctoral candidates,” she half-closes the door to where he is still standing in the way, “and I'm the faculty lifeguard at the pool.”

He sticks his head around the door, “I just thought you could possibly--”

“Perhaps you should keep a journal. Write down what she said or something. That's all I can suggest.”

“I can barely remember it all,” he sighs, dispirited. “I just remember: ‘Little did he know that this simple, seemingly innocuous act would lead to his imminent death.’”

She freezes half-way back to her desk, her head whipping around, “WHAT?” 

"Little did he know that this--"

She puts up both hands, silencing him, “did you say, ‘little did he know’?”

“Yes.”

This earns Bucky a HUGE smile, both dimples, her green eyes sparkling with excitement, “I've written papers on ‘little did he know.’ I used to teach a class based on ‘little did he know.’ I mean, I once gave an entire seminar on “little did he know.’ Son of a bitch, Bucky. 'Little did he know’ means there's something he doesn't know that means there's something you don't know. Did you know that?!” She jog-walks over to the huge calendar on her wall, “I want you to come back Friday.”

“Okay?”

“No! ‘imminent!’ you could be dead by Friday!” she points at the next day, “come back tomorrow at 9:45.”

Bucky is dumbfounded, “Professor Romanoff, Ten seconds ago you said you wouldn't help me.”

A deep, half smile spreads across her face; with a cocked eyebrow this time, “Well, Bucky, it's been a very revealing 10 seconds.”

* * *

Bucky takes the bus home and tries not to stress too hard about the situation, instead trying to concentrate on literally anything else when the voice suddenly comes back. 

> _ Bucky was deep in thought. _

He quickly gets out a legal pad to write down what she says.

> _ For a few, brief moments, from Born Boulevard to Euclid Avenue all the calculations and all the rules and all the precision of Bucky's life just faded away. How perfect then that in this space Steven Rogers would appear. _

Bucky’s head whips up from his paper and finds himself suddenly eye to eye with the fiery but diminutive man. “Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers, it's Bucky Barnes from the IRS.” 

Steve recoils slightly in disgust, edging to put another passenger between himself and Bucky. 

Bucky frowns, contrite, “Hi.”

Steve glares at him, lips pursed.

Bucky adjusts his back, “would you like a seat?”

This earns him a glare, “Nope” Steve pops the P at the end of the word. 

“Are you sure? There's 11 open ones.” 

“I. Don't. Care.” Steve fidgets and adjust his bag just as the bus hits a bump and knocks him into the empty seat closest to Bucky. 

Trying not to smile at Steve’s agitation, Bucky asks, “How are you?” 

Steve crosses his arms and shoots Bucky and incredulous look, “I'm lousy. I'm being audited,” he narrows his eyes, combatively, “by a real creep too.” 

Bucky sighs and nods understanding, “Mister Rogers, I think I owe you an apology.”

This gets Steve’s attention, “Really?”

Bucky fidgets nervously, “IRS agents we're given rigorous aptitude tests before we can work. Unfortunately, for you, we aren't tested on tact or good manners so I apologize.” He glances up to see Steve gaping at him in surprise, “I o-ogled you, s-sorry. Sorry.” 

Steve sits back in his seat, much more relaxed, “Okay, apology accepted,” he gives a half smile and leans forward, “but only because you stammered.”

Bucky picks at the corner of his bag a moment before taking a chance, “So you're a frequenter of the Metropolitan Transit Authority too?”

Steve sighs, “no. I'm just late.” 

“Big flag-burning to get to?”

Steve leans forward, conspiratorially, “Actually it's my weekly evil-conspiracy and needlepoint group.” He gives bucky a big smile and it is like the sun has risen after a long winter, “you wanna come?”

Bucky manages a quick retort, “sorry, I left my thimbles and socialist reading material at home.” 

> _ So Bucky nervously made small talk. _

“You have very straight teeth.”

> _ Very small talk. _   
> 

The smile somehow gets wider, edging into a smirk, “thanks. They're real.” 

Bucky finds himself laughing in spite of his nervousness and-

> _ Bucky quickly calculated the odds of making an ass of himself in ratio to the amount of time he stayed to chat. _

“This is my stop. I should go.”

> _ He was elated and surprised... _

“See you soon.” 

> _...by his somewhat flirtatious encounter with Mr. Rogers. So elated that he exited the Transit Authority bus a good 27 blocks too early and would now have to walk. _


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky opens the door to Professor Romanov’s office to see her lying on her small couch, arm flung over her face. When she hears the door, she sits up with a warm smile, “Mr. Barnes. Come in, come in. Please. How are you?” 

“I'm fine, actually,” Bucky says with a wan smile. 

“Looks like our narrator hasn't killed you quite yet.” she stretches behind her to pick up her now cold cup of coffee, sipping it with a grimace.

“No, not yet.”

Natasha waves him over to the seat closest to her current roost, “good, great. Have a seat. Did you count the stairs outside?”

“No. Course not.” 

“I've devised a test-” she grimaces again at the cold coffee, “it’s a list of questions which I think might help uncover more truths about this narrator.”

“Now, Mr. Barnes--”

“Bucky.”

“Bucky.” She smiles at him with both dimples, “Bucky, these may seem silly, but your candor is paramount.”

“Okay.” 

“Okay! So.” She picks up a much worn legal pad full of notes and scribbles off of the coffee table before curling her legs into lotus position, leaning over the pad towards him, “we know it's a woman's voice, the story involves your death, it's modern, it's in English, and, I'm assuming, the author has a cursory knowledge of the city.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, good. Question one: 'Has anyone recently left any gifts outside your home?' Anything? Gum? Money?” At Bucky’s confused glance around the office she supplies, “a large wooden horse?” she gestures at him, palm outstretched.

Bucky raises his eyebrows in bewilderment, “I'm sorry?”

“Just answer the question.”

He gives her a little frown and shakes his head, “no.” 

“No. ok, 'Do you find yourself inclined to solve murder mysteries in large, luxurious homes to which--?'” she raises a finger at his dismayed look, “nah-ahah--Let me finish. 'To which you may or may not have been invited?'” 

“No.” 

“No, no. All right. On a scale of one to 10 what would you consider the likelihood you might be assassinated?” 

He gives her a dry look, “assassinated?” 

“Yep! One being very unlikely, 10 being expecting it around every corner.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face in frustration, “I have no idea-”

She puts up her hand, placatingly, “Okay. Okay, let me rephrase. Are you the king of anything?”

He pauses rubbing the headache out of his left temple to glare at her, “Like what?”

“Anything. King of the lanes at the local bowling alley.” 

“King of the lanes?”

“Sure. King of the lanes. King of the trolls?”

“King of the trolls,” he glowers at her.

“Yes. or perhaps king of clandestine land found underneath your floorboards. Anything?”

“No. No! That's ridiculous.” 

“Agreed!” She brandishes the tablet at him, “but let's start with ridiculous and move backwards! Now, was any part of you at one time part of something else? 

“Like? do I have someone else's arm?” 

“Well, is it possible at one time that you were made of stone wood, lye, varied corpse parts or earth made holy by rabbinical elders?” 

“Earth made holy--what?” the absurdity of the question makes him laugh. “No. Look. I'm sorry. What do these questions have to do with anything?” 

“The only way to find out what story you're in is to determine what stories you're not in. Odd as it may seem, I've just ruled out half of Greek literature, seven fairy tales, and determined conclusively that you are not Hamlet. Nor are you Scout Finch, Miss Marple, Frankenstein's monster, or a golem. Aren't you relieved to know you're not a golem?” 

He sags against the back of the chair, rolling his eyes, “yes, I am relieved to know that I am not a golem.” 

“Good. Do you have magical powers?”

Over an hour later they are still at it, though Bucky, having long since resigned himself to the ludicrous questions, answers them rapid-fire with the first thing that pops into his mind. 

“What's your favorite word?”

“Integer.” 

“Do you aspire to anything?”

“No.”

“Conquer Russia? Win a whistling contest?”

He sits up in his chair straighter, “no.”

“Bucky, come on, you must have some ambition.” she leans down at him from where she is now perched, barefoot, on the back of the couch.

“I--I don't think so.”

“Some underlying dream? Think!” 

“Well, l've always wanted my life to be more.... musical.

“Like West Side Story?” She tilts her head at him. 

“No! No.”

“Like what?” 

“Well, I've always wanted to learn to play the guitar. “

“Okay!” she rifles through her notes, “the last thing to determine conclusively is whether you're in a comedy or a tragedy.” 

“Okay? What’s the difference?”

“Tragedy, you die. Comedy, you get hitched. Most comic heroes fall in love with people introduced after the story has begun. Usually people who hate the hero initially. Although I can't imagine anyone hating you, Bucky.” 

“Professor Romanov, I'm an IRS agent. Everyone hates me.” 

“Right! Oh, right. Good. Well, have you met anyone recently who might loathe the very core of you?” 

“I just started auditing a man who told me to get bent.” 

“Well, that sounds like a comedy. Try to develop that.” she taps him on the shoulder with the notebook and he nods then gathers his coat to leave. “Oh, and Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

She puts her hand to her chest, “Natasha.” 

“Okay. Thanks.”

* * *

Steve froze on the sidewalk with his keys in his hand before he shook himself and unlocked the bakery door, “Mr. Barnes. You're here early. Must have a lot of people to extort.” he swept past in a flurry, turning on the lights and flipping chairs off the tables to rest properly on the floor.

Bucky tries to smile as he grabs a chair to help, “no. No, just you. Actually, it should only take the day to make sure 12 percent is all you owe.” 

“Well, I won't be paying no matter the percentage, Mr. Barnes,” Steve pulls the chair out of his hands and sets it on the floor a little too forcefully. 

“No, I know. But the percent determines how big your cell is,” the joke, of course, falls flat. Steve is now actively glaring at him so he tries again, “you know, you can call me Bucky.” 

“Yeah, I know. But I don't want to.” 

Bucky frowns and makes a mark in the small notepad in his hand as Steve ushers him down into the basement storage area. It is a low, dark, tight space, lit by flickery fluorescents, the walls tightly lined with densely packed storage shelves. There is a rickety card table and single metal folding chair on top of which sits a large box. Bucky walks over to the table, gingerly setting down his bag, “why don't we start with your backup documents and the receipts for the past three years.”

“Sure!” Steve dumps the box out onto the table, an avalanche of messy paperwork goes everywhere.

Bucky stares at the mayhem, mouth agape, “what's this?”

“My files.”

“What?”

“My tax files,” Steve smirks, crossing his thin arms in triumph.

“You keep your files like this?” Bucky waves a hand at the mess.

“No, actually I'm quite fastidious, I put them in this box just to screw with you. Have a good day!” and with that he bound up the stairs with a laugh, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Bucky is waiting very patiently for Steve’s attention, there was a line of customers for the past five minutes and now Steve is purposefully ignoring him to lean on the counter and chat with one of his employees.

“Hey Wanda! Good to see you! So how was it? Aruba!” Steve smiles at the woman, after giving Bucky a glare over her shoulder while they hugged hello. 

Bucky tries very politely to but in, “Mr. Rogers? Can I just ask you a question about this receipt?”

“It was fantastic!” The woman, Wanda, presumably, begins gushing about her trip while Steve resolutely ignores him, focusing solely on her.

Bucky holds it up, beside Wanda’s face, “just wondering if this nine is a seven?”

Wanda, taking her cue from Steve continues as if nothing was said, “I got a beautiful tan, we jumped off a waterfall, we rode bikes all over the island, it was amazing! I mean, I feel stress-free.” 

Bucky, makes another mark in his little notebook and mumbles, “I'm just gonna guess it's a seven.”

* * *

He is basically elbows deep in receipts when the door to the basement opens, allowing a scraggly looking older man who is maintaining a steady stream of mumbling to himself to come down the stairs, “ _...walk to heaven. I see the president _ _._ Oh! It's the taxman. Hello, Mr. Taxman.”

“Yeah. Hi, you can call me Bucky.”

“Okay. How the numbers going?  _Mckinley or Taft? Maybe Cleveland?_ ”

“Pretty good.”

“Gonna find that 12 percent?  _12 percent. One Two. Three times two times two. It's prime numbers_.”

“That’s the idea, hopefully” 

“You gonna tax the bathroom?”

“Nope, I'm not gonna tax the bathroom.”

“Could I use the bathroom, then?”

“Go for it.” 

“Okay.”

“Bye now.” 

“Bye-bye.” The man enters the tiny employees’ bathroom and Bucky gets back to work, with a small smile. 

* * *

When he comes up from the basement, the bakery is dark, empty, and devoid of anyone except Steve who has just taken a tray of what looks like chocolate chip cookies out of one of the many ovens. Bucky watches him a moment before clearing his throat, “well, good night.” 

Steve, turns towards him, pulling off his oven mitts, “you want a cookie?” 

Bucky holds up both hands “oh, no. No thank you.” 

Steve smiles, scooping them off the tray onto a plate, “come on. They're warm and gooey. They're fresh out of the oven.” 

Bucky shrugs, “no, I don't like cookies.” 

Steve looks at him like he just said the stupidest thing in the history of language, “you don't like cookies?! What's wrong with you? Everybody likes cookies. I mean, after a really awful, no-good day didn't your mama ever make you milk and cookies?” 

“No. My mother didn't bake. The only cookies I ever had were store-bought.” 

Steve nods as if this has answered one of life’s great mysteries, “okay. Sit down.” he sets the plate on the counter and turns to the fridge, grabbing the glass jar of milk, tucking it into his elbow and grabbing two glasses.

Bucky tried to protest, feebly, “no, I'm-”

Steve swoops past the counter, grabbing the plate of cookies and then depositing the lot on the nearest table, “No!” He points at one of the chairs, “Sit. Down.” Bucky has no choice but to follow this order, “Now, eat a cookie.” Steve begins filing a glass with milk.

Bucky looks stricken at that, “I really can't.” 

Steve pauses mid-pour, “Mr. Barnes, it was a really awful day. I know, I made sure of it. So pick up a damned cookie, dip it in the damned milk, and EAT it.” He pushes the glass of milk and plate of cookies directly in front of Bucky.

Bucky stares at him for a moment before giving up and taking one of the cookies. He skips the milk and shoves it in his mouth, whole; intending to just swallow it so he can leave. However, the flavor that infuses his mouth overwhelms him, it’s the perfect warm blend of butter, sugar and vanilla mixed with the melted chocolate and he finds himself closing his eyes and literally moaning softly. When he finally swallows and opens his eyes, he smiles dopily, “that's a really, really good cookie.” 

Steve takes one and sits back in his chair in triumph, nodding.

Bucky take another cookie, this time dipping it in the milk and taking a small bite. He doesn’t wait to swallow before asking, “so when did you decide to become a baker?”

“In college.”

Bucky swallows and takes a sip of the milk, “oh, like a cooking college?” 

“I went to Harvard Law, actually” Steve leans forward on one elbow and takes a bite of his own cookie.

Bucky almost chokes on his bite, “I'm sorry, I just assumed it was-”

Steve laughs and waves him off, “it's fine. I didn't finish.”

“Did something happen?”

Steve shrugs, “no. I was barely accepted. I mean, really barely. The only reason they let me come was because of my essay. How I was gonna make the world a better place with my degree.” Steve raises his hands in an arch for emphasis. “Anyway, we would have to participate in these study sessions, my classmates and I, sometimes all night long. And so I'd bake so no one would go hungry while we worked. Sometimes I would bake all afternoon in the kitchen in the dorm and then I'd bring my little treats to the study groups and people loved them.” Steve stands, taking the plate but leaving two cookies behind, “eat,” he points at bucky who dutifully picks one up. Steve then slips behind the counter, getting a small box for the leftover cookies, “I made oatmeal cookies, peanut-butter bars, dark-chocolate macadamia-nut wedges. And everyone would eat and stay happy and study harder and do better on the tests. More and more people started coming to the study groups and I'd bring more snacks. I was always looking for better and better recipes until soon it was ricotta cheese and apricot croissants, and mocha bars with an almond glaze, and lemon chiffon cake with zesty peach icing. And at the end of the semester I had 27 study partners eight Mead journals filled with recipes and a D average.” He brings the box back to the table and plops down into his abandoned chair. “So I dropped out. I figured if I was gonna make the world a better place I would do it with cookies,” he tosses his hands up in a gesture indicating it was inevitable. “Do you like them?” 

Bucky swallows his final bite, “I do!” 

“I'm glad.” 

“Thank you for forcing me to eat them,” Bucky smiles teasingly. 

Steve gives him a crooked smile and a nod. “You're welcome.” 

“I should go.” Bucky stands, picking up his briefcase and jacket, “oh, thank you. For the cookies, I mean.”

Steve holds out the box to him, “why don't you take them home?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, come on,” he pushes the box into Bucky’s chest.

Bucky puts his hands up defensively, “No, no. Really, please. I would like to, but I can't.”

“You ....can't?” Steve raises a sardonic eyebrow.

“No, no, I mean--because, see, it constitutes a gift. Actually, I shouldn't have even had those other ones, so.” 

Steve laughs, “okay. Well, I'm not gonna tell anyone.”

“No, I know, but if you did.”

Steve is still trying to push the box into Bucky’s hand, “well, I'm not going to.”

“I know, but if you did-”

Steve drops his hands to his sides. “What? You think I'm gonna call the--?” he tosses the box on to the table in annoyance.

“No, no. Look.” Bucky pulls out his wallet, “I'll, I’ll purchase them! I'm happy to purchase them. How's that? And then there are no issues.”

“What? No!” Steve, fully indignant now, pushes Bucky towards the door.

“Please? Just--why don't I just--?” 

“Go home.” 

Bucky trying to twist out of Steve’s surprisingly strong grip. “Really, it's not a big deal--” 

“Go. _Home_.” 

Bucky stops struggling, “okay. Shit. D--did you?” his shoulders drop, dejected. “You baked those cookies for me, didn't you? You were just trying to be nice and I totally blew it.” He puts his wallet back in his pocket, pulling out instead the tiny notebook. The page is filled with tally marks. “This may sound like gibberish to you, but I think I'm in a tragedy.”


End file.
